Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  The planning had been a dreary business and strangely confusing—acquiring the gun from a disquietingly jocular pawnbroker, and then the tedious search for a car, which had been the most difficult problem of all But eventually he found what he needed—the Buick used by the corner drugstore for deliveries. The young man who drove it obviously operated on a tight schedule, for he didn’t remove the key when he went inside to pick up his parcels. When the car was parked at the curb, the key was always in the ignition; Bogan established this fact in a week of patient snooping. Thus the timing of his ultimate act was determined by the delivery schedule of the drugstore. And for some obscure reason this pleased Bogan; it lent a whimsical, unpremeditated tone to his plans.

  Bogan fell in his pockets for a chocolate bar, then remembered that he had left them in his overcoat. He felt his eyes sting with tears; he needed something sweet, but he had been so pressed and excited that he hadn’t remembered to take the candy bars from his overcoat.

  Bogan sat up straighter. Suddenly he thought of the dark-haired waitress at the restaurant—the one he had bought the coffee from. Why had he been such a fool? The need for something warm and sweet had been powerful, but he should have resisted it; she would tell the police what he looked like—and enjoy doing it, he thought sullenly and unhappily. She would like telling on him, getting him into trouble. He knew that from her face and eyes; there was no warmth there, only meaningless politeness.

  ‘Don t get excited,” he told himself, his soft lips silently forming the words. The trooper didn’t ask her about me; there was still time

  He said quietly to Perkins, “We’re going to have to make a U-turn.”

  “But that’s not legal. We’ll be stopped.”

  “We’ll just make sure there are no patrol cars in front or behind us,” Bogan said easily “Anyone else will think we’re an unmarked police car.”

  Bogan put the muzzle of his gun against Perkins’s side. “You’re a nice young boy. I don’t want to hurt you. Turn into the left-hand lane, and we’ll watch for one of those openings the police cars use.”

  Bogan felt a pleasant excitement running through him; he was almost glad of the way things were working out. It would be very satisfying to have that arrogant girl in his hands. And he realized that he had the bait to lure her to him—the name he had heard from the gas-station attendant: “Dan O’Leary.”

  IX

  LIEUTENANT TRASK and O’Leary learned nothing from the white Edsel station wagon; it had been driven twelve miles, from Howard Johnson’s No. 1 to No. 2, and then abandoned, the driver disappearing like a phantom. Lieutenant Trask had checked out the waitresses and countermen in the restaurant while O’Leary and a team of troopers searched the grounds and inspected the trucks that were lined up like huge animals in the truckers’ area. They waked the drivers and examined the lashings and tail gates for any sign of forced entry.

  After this O’Leary talked to the gas attendants. None of them remembered anything helpful. He did come on a bit of irrelevant information, however; one of the attendants mentioned that someone—a man standing in the shadows of the office—had made some comment about O’Leary’s speed when O’Leary had driven into the area ten or fifteen minutes earlier. The attendant said he told the man Trooper O’Leary knew his business—or something to that effect. The attendant wasn’t exactly sure of what he’d said, but it wasn’t important in any case, O’Leary decided.

  He rejoined Trask, who had returned to the Edsel station wagon. Trask had been in contact with Captain Royce. They now had an identification on the owner of the Edsel, the elderly man who had been killed at Howard Johnson’s No. 1.

  “He lived in Watertown,” Trask said, flipping his cigarette into the darkness. “Name was Nelson, Adam Nelson, a widower, retired executive at the paint factory there. They got a line on him from the laundry marks in his shirt.”

  These markings—in this case a triangle with the digits 356 beneath it—had been relayed to state-police headquarters by radio, where they had been checked against the master file of all laundry marks in the state. The sergeant in charge had established the location of the laundry from the triangle: a telephone call to the manager had established the identity of the customer from the digits 356.

  Trask added, “He was on his way to spend a few days with a married daughter in Newbury. None of which helps us a damn bit.”

  O’Leary was frowning faintly. He had been trying to fit together a picture of the murderer, and for some reason his guesses about the man bothered him; the portrait was Hawed with inconsistency, and O’Leary had that tantalizing feeling that a significant fact was hidden somewhere in that blurred image.

  What in heaven’s name was it? O’Leary tried to analyze the inferences he had drawn from the man’s behavior. The killer was both bold and deliberate. He had killed brutally and swiftly, with no signs of panic. He had made a mistake in taking a conspicuous car, but had corrected it cleverly—which meant he was thinking clearly under pressure And he hadn’t duplicated his first mistake; he had got away from the Edsel without being seen, and by now, safe to assume, was on his way in a less conspicuous car. Also, he seemed to be working according to a plan, time wasn’t important to him, or he’d have taken a chance and tried to get through an exit in the Edsel. After all, he couldn’t have known for sure that the police would identify the missing car. But he hadn’t taken that chance; he was in no hurry. And he’d given the police credit for being as smart as he was.

  It was a picture of a man who was ruthless and cunning. A man who thought clearly and measured his chances shrewdly. And that was where the inconsistency became apparent; the image was streaked with flaws, something was out of place, something incongruous. Because the killer had done something foolish . . .

  “What’s the matter with you?” Trask said.

  O’Leary put both hands over his ears; the traffic on the pike rushed by like a river of noise and light, and he tried to shut out the sound of it, tried furiously to find the truth that was hidden somewhere in this maze of facts and hunches, of inferences and intuitions. Then it was as if a clear and brilliant light had snapped on in his mind; then he had it.

  He caught Trask’s arm. “The dead man. Nelson; he’d had his dinner, right? He had left the restaurant and walked to his car. But there was a coffee container beside his body. And one of those little cardboard things they put hot dogs in. Remember?”

  “Sure,” Trask’s dark face was impassive; but a flicker of understanding came to his eyes. “Go on.”

  “Those containers belonged to the killer,” O’Leary said. “He ate and drank there beside Nelson’s car. Then he dropped them on the ground.”

  “Which means he went into the restaurant after all,” Trask said, his voice sharpening. “But you told me you checked out the waitresses. They should have remembered a guy without a hat or coal on a night like this.”

  “I didn’t check all of them,” O’Leary said. He suddenly felt sick with guilt and apprehension. “I talked to the hostess. She’d have spotted anybody who wanted a table. Then I went to the take-out counter. But I only questioned one of the girls on duty. I—I forgot about the other one.”

  “You forgot?” Trask said sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

  “She’s a friend of mine, Sheila Leslie.” O’Leary drew a deep breath. “I was more interested in her than my job, that’s all, lieutenant. But I wasn’t after a murderer then. I was after the owner of a stalled car. Which is no excuse.”

  “I guess it’s not,” Trask said. “But you’ve put us back on the right track. We’ll find the girl who sold him that coffee. When we know what he looks like, we’ll seal off this pike till it’s damn near watertight. I’ll call Captain Royce on the way. Let’s go.”

  O’Leary ran toward his car. The killer must have bought his coffee from Sheila, he realized; if he hadn’t done that one compulsive, dangerous thing, they might never have got a line on him. He could have drifted through their nets like a wisp
of smoke. And then O’Leary remembered something that caused a strange coldness to settle in his stomach; the killer had corrected one mistake. He had got rid of the Edsel. Would he try to correct his other mistake—by getting rid of the only witness who could identify him?

  O’Leary snapped on his red beacon and jammed his foot hard on the accelerator.

  X

  HARRY BOGAN sat in the rear seat of Alan Perkins’s sedan, which was now parked close to the entrance of Howard Johnson’s No. 1. He was smiling softly; they had made two U-turns in doubling back to the restaurant, and for all the attention they received they might have been lazily circling about a sleepy village on a Sunday evening. He held his gun so that it pointed at Perkins’s head. “We’ll have to wait until a car pulls in alongside us,” he said. “You remember what you’re to tell the driver?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Perkins said.

  “You’re a good boy. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  They were close enough to the restaurant for Bogan to see the dark-haired girl at work behind the take-out counter. She was slim and cool and swift in her while uniform, her skin smooth and glowing under the bright light, her teeth flashing now and then in quick smiles. They meant nothing, he knew, and fell his heart speeding with anger. A bone thrown to a hungry dog, nothing more. The smile that told of her real feelings wouldn’t be squandered on the lonely and miserable persons lined up at her counter. She would save that for the trooper, inviting him with her eyes and lips into the warm, selfish circle of her love.

  They did not have long to wait, A small, middle-aged man in a leather jacket pulled in beside them and climbed from his car.

  “All right,” Bogan said quietly. Perkins rolled the window down and called to the man. “Pardon me, sir, but would you do me a favor?”

  The man turned, peering into the darkness toward Perkins’s voice. The shadows blurred Perkins’s face and obscured Bogan completely. The man came a step closer. “Well, if I can, I don’t mind,” he said in a soft Southern accent.

  “There’s a waitress inside I want to send a message to.” Perkins said. “You can see her from here—she’s the dark-haired one at the take-out counter.”

  The man glanced toward the restaurant, nodding slowly. “I see her all right. Just what kind of a message is it?”

  “Just tell her Trooper O’Leary wants to see her outside for a second.”

  Bogan smiled in the darkness; the trooper’s name had been a gift, a priceless bit of luck, and he accepted it as a talisman of success.

  “Trooper O’Leary, is that it?” the man said. “Well, I’ll tell her for you.” He laughed softly. “Man taking messages to pretty girls can get in a fix of trouble sometimes. But this is kind of different.”

  “Listen to me, for heaven’s sake,” Perkins said to Bogan, as the stranger walked with a leisurely gait toward the restaurant. “It won’t work. She’ll be frightened; she’s liable to scream or something.” He turned his head slowly, cautiously, until he could see the shine of Bogan’s glasses. “Please, there’s no need—to hurt anybody I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. You can ride in the trunk. I give you my word of honor.”

  “I don’t need your help to get off the turnpike,” Bogan said, laughing softly. “Now you just do as I told you. When she gets that message, you drive up and stop in from of the entrance. Keep the motor running. That’s all you’ve got to worry about.” He prodded the boy’s cheek with his gun, sharply, cruelly. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, all right.” Perkins barely whispered the words.

  They watched the man in the leather jacket make his way through the crowded restaurant to the take-out counter. He removed his hat and raised a hand to get the dark-haired girl’s attention.

  The girl smiled at him, and when he spoke she leaned forward slightly, her head tilted slightly to one side. She glanced toward the windows; the man had gestured in that direction, obviously telling her where he had received the message. The girl gave him a quick, warm grin then and came swiftly around the counter and walked toward the revolving doors of the restaurant, one hand pushing at a stray curl on her forehead. She stopped briefly to speak to the hostess. Asking permission to step outside for a moment or so, Bogan thought, smiling faintly. A very proper little girl, obedient and responsible. She was moving again, walking toward the entrance.

  “All right,” he said quietly.

  Perkins backed his Ford out of line, then cut the wheels and drove toward the entrance, which was marked as a no parking area. The revolving doors glittered as they spun around, and the girl came out onto the broad sidewalk. An awning protected her from the rain, but the cold wind whipped the skirts of her white uniform about her slim legs.

  Perkins stopped, and Bogan reached forward and opened the front door. The girl came toward the car, bending to look into the dark interior. “Dan, is that you?” she said, in a clear, unworried voice.

  Bogan glanced quickly out the rear window. A family was hurrying toward the restaurant, a mother, father and four small children, but the parents were involved in shepherding their charges and paid no attention to the stopped car and the girl standing beside it.

  “I have a message from Dan,” Bogan said.

  “What is it?” She put her head in the car, bracing herself with a knee against the front seat. The family with the four children had filed out of sight, and when she said, “What is it?” the second time, a bit sharply now, Bogan caught her arm and pulled her into the front seat, “Go!” Bogan said to Perkins, and before she could scream, he had the gun in her face, and the car was leaping forward, the door swinging shut with a bang.

  She would have screamed, regardless of the gun, but Perkins’s voice cut through her terror. “Don’t!” he cried. “Please do what he says. He’ll shoot.”

  “That’s true,” Bogan said, pleased with the young man. “Now drive over to where the trucks park.” He still held the girl’s arm and could feel the tremors shaking her body.

  “Now what do you want with me?” she said in a dry, careful voice.

  “That will have to wait a bit. We’ll have time to talk later.” The fear in her eyes and face satisfied something deep inside him; and he remembered how the girl in the furniture shop had looked when he raised the gun, her face blank with panic, eyes wild and frantic. Once as a child he had seen a horse trapped in a burning barn; and the girl’s eyes were like those of the poor horse, crazed and helpless. The sight of her fear had been almost unendurably exciting.

  The area reserved for the big trucks was a hundred yards beyond the gas station, an unlighted expanse of concrete the size of a football field, with parking spaces indicated by lines of while paint Bogan directed Perkins to the far end of the lot.

  In the silence that settled when Perkins cut the motor, Bogan heard the girl’s shallow, uneven breathing. The sound was satisfying; no longer laughing and confident, he thought, no longer warmed by the admiring eyes lingering on her slim body. Now she would pay attention to him. In a quiet, deliberate voice Bogan explained what he wanted them to do, and they obeyed carefully and quickly, like children trying to appease a fearsome, unpredictable adult. It wasn’t the gun they responded to, but the tension coiling beneath his surface calm. They knew with a primitive instinct that he was hoping they might disobey him; they knew he would relish the excuse to throw his self-control to the winds.

  They got out of the car on the girl’s side and stood motionless until he joined them. Then the girl, on order, climbed into the rear-seat section and lay face down on the floor. Bogan had already removed his tie and belt. He gave them to Perkins, who knotted the tic about the girl’s wrists and looped the belt about her ankles, buckling it with trembling fingers. When he straightened up, Bogan inspected his work, then closed the rear door. “Now climb into the front seat.” he told Perkins, but when Perkins turned to obey, Bogan struck him heavily with the barrel of his gun. the blow landing just above his right ear. Perkins pitched forward, moaning in pain, but Bogan ca
ught him before he struck the ground and carried him into the field adjoining the parking lot. He rolled the limp body into a ditch and returned to the car.

  Safely lay on him like a balm, filling him with a warm complacence. Perkins wouldn’t recover consciousness for hours, if at all; and the only other witness who might identify him was trussed up in the back of his car. Now there was nothing left but to get off the turnpike. And he knew how to solve that problem.

  He started his car and drove along the wide, curving lane that led to the turnpike, laughing as he merged smoothly with the swift, southbound traffic. The rain was coming down harder, bouncing on the shining concrete, and the Ford was swiftly lost in the dark streams of cars, with no more identity than a leaf in a storm or a chip swirling down a stream. The beams of oncoming headlights broke on his thick glasses and glittered against the excitement in his eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he said in a high, pleased voice. “Are you comfortable?” The girl lay with her wrists bound at the small of her back, her cheek flat against the car’s rough carpeting. She was trembling with cold and with fear, but she said evenly, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” Bogan said. In truth, he didn’t know; but when they left the turnpike he would make up his mind. He would find a place that was dark and quiet. A field, he thought, or the bank of a stream, where he could rest, where they might talk for a while.